Random Acts of Poetry

Walk

The frozen ditches and weeds
break like glass beneath my feet.

This is testimony.
I have been here.

Not a ghost or an electric eye
floating in a cloud of vanity.

Not an aspect of solitude
spilled like tears across a page.

Not a memory or a masquerade
calling to mind some dead volcano.

My weight will matter here,
till molecules lose their fascination,

till the thawed earth splits open
and gulps like a greedy mouth.